


Three and a half moves ahead (on a good day)

by Automartyr (Brynnen), Brynnen



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Darren does not entirely lack self-awareness, Darren is still a pissant, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Geoffrey is too tired to hate him, Mental Health Issues, Oliver is still a ghost, Swearing, Those stupid chess pieces, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynnen/pseuds/Automartyr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynnen/pseuds/Brynnen
Summary: What made Geoffrey suddenly decide to manipulate Darren into changing his vision of Romeo and Juliet?





	Three and a half moves ahead (on a good day)

It was closer to four than three in the morning when Geoffrey and Oliver decided to call a night. The ghost simply vanished to wherever it was he went when he wasn't bothering Geoffrey, while Geoffrey had to trudge through the dark theatre corridors to the props cupboard he called home. In spite of the hour, the corridors weren't quite as dark as Geoffrey expected them to be and morbid curiosity lured him to the doorway of R&J's rehearsal room.

  
The gaudy scarf was a dead giveaway as to what crazy person would still be there at such an hour. Darren was staring blankly at a maquette and positioning chessmen here and there with an intent frown and a protruding lower lip. He'd obviously been at the task for some time and Geoffrey wasn't sure he had the energy to be as patient with the man's antics as he usually was. Instead he simply leant against the doorframe and observed the eternal thorn in his side.

Concentration pulled Darren's eyebrows into a sulky scowl as he moved the pieces about, stepping back to observe the effect before fiddling with the placement again. Darren looked like a child confronted with calculus, baffled and out of his depth.

  
'What is it missing?' He whined out loud at his chessmen in that strange, ridiculous accent that few knew wasn't actually affected.

  
-It's the heart, you maladroit fool.- Geoffrey thought. He'd given a story about teenagers in love, motivated by hormones and burning passion to the most emotionally stunted person he knew. All the Brecht and postmodern deconstructions in the world couldn't hide the cracks at nearly four in the morning.

  
'Hey, I'm glad you love the theatre again Darren, but we're not at Uni any more.' Geoffrey projected his weary voice to carry, not bothering to conceal how exhausted he was, now that his mind was on something other than Macbeth.

  
Darren raised his head, very carefully not reacting to sudden appearance of the AD. 'Speak for yourself!' Joints cracked as he straightened up in spite of his facade of magnificent indifference.

  
'I'll call you a cab.' Geoffrey sort of offered, attempting a conciliatory gesture so he didn't have to put up with Darren for any longer.

  
'Don't bother.'

  
'You got thrown out of another flat?' Geoffrey guessed, remembering the fires again.

  
Darren gave him a narrow-eyed stare, guessing at Geoffrey's thoughts. 'Actually, it was double-booked and Mrs Spitz' down payment was preferable to the theatre's promises of payment later. And I've seen the sate of the local hotels.' Darren shuddered, Geoffrey did too, in remembrance of cockroaches past.

  
-What the Hell.- He thought and Geoffrey turned away,heading off towards his office without checking to see if Darren would follow. He always did when the witching hour came and their defences were too low for the usual sniping. Geoffrey slammed two glasses down onto his desk and poured two generous measures of Oliver's remaining whiskey.

  
Darren picked one of them up and looked as if he was going to make a smug remark, but visibly changed his mind and instead proffered his cigarette case. Geoffrey waved it off, observing the offputting brown hue of them, it was probably some godawful European brand chosen to make him look artistic.

  
Darren lit up and smoked in silence for a long moment, giving Geoffrey time to observe him. Darren looked haggard and weary without his protective layer of bluster to distract the eye. Geoffrey suspect he did too, given how little sleep he'd had over the past few weeks, but Geoffrey was not a small man and his natural charisma made him a centre of attention even without using the myriad tricks of his trade.

Take away the heavy boots, ridiculour amount of layers and his brash facade and Darren looked small and lost. He'd tried to fill in the cracks running through him with books, but as Geoffrey poured another, more generous serving of whiskey Darren simply was.

  
'It's a shame you were born too late to be involved in the Cabaret Dada. It would have suited you.'

  
A suspicious look was levelled at him before Darren's expression softened fractionally. 'A man cut loose, adrift in time. You must regret not having been born in Elizabethan England - the melodrama and lack of any gross 'modern' indignities to the title of drama would have suited you.'

  
'God he's an awful little man.' Geoffrey agreed with the jab at the useless milksop, Lionel Train. 'So why do you like theatre again?'

  
Darren nearly dropped his smouldering cigarette and stared at Geoffrey in shock. 'And you'd been so good about not asking.' He'd been too self-absorbed, but that was the blessing of theatre people, all too wrapped in their own melodramas to notice one's own.

  
'I've been busy collaborating with a dead man on that damn' play, I didn't go blind!' Geoffrey's voice rose in frustration, just thinking of his ongoing ordeal.

  
'It is an incredibly difficult play to stage effectively.' Darren agreed almost sympathetically. Geoffrey resisted the urge to check his temperature. 'Breedlove doesn't help, of course. What a pompous, complacent bore, too lazy to examine the text or even try to think a he regurgitates his lines with turgid predictability.'

  
Geoffrey was grudgingly impressed that Darren had looked up from playing with his chess set for long enough to even notice. Destroying Romeo and Juliet was a full-time job after all. Say what you like about Darren (and Geoffrey did, frequently), you could never accuse the man of 'phoning it in. Bad taste, obscenity, attempted arson intellectual terrorism and desecration of a cultural masterpiece, sure, but Darren always read the script anew and tried to show some facet or interpretation audiences had never considered - even if they'd never considered it because it was insane. Smelly Hamlet was the tip of an enormous, horrifying iceberg.

  
'Seriously Darren, why did you come back to the theatre? I never really managed to get free.'

  
There was a long pause as Darren stared at him long and hard, eyes narrowed as he considered the artistic director. Then he poured himself another drink and downed it. 'Schwartzwald.'

  
What? The Black Forest? In Germany?' Geoffrey grasped for understanding.

  
'Have you even been? Everyone raves about it. The wald in general is a sort of socio-cultural touchstone of fundamental German...' He trailed off and shook his head as Geoffrey stared at him, waiting for the man to start talking sense. 'You've never been to German have you, so I'll leave the comparative anthropology for another day.' His eyes were dull as he stared at the opposite wall, head lolling against the chair-back as he stared somewhere into the past.

  
'It's just trees and rocks, you know. Trees and rocks and loud-mouthed bourgeois tourists tramping about cooing in six different languages about how fucking quaint it is. Like a goddam chocolate box!' Whiskey spilt as he flailed his arms in outrage, the tawny liquid dripping down his head like a crude parody of baptism. 'They were so banal; talking about school and dinner-parties and those fucking awful books they only pretend to read!' He shuddered. 'Then came the puppet-making commune....' His voice was dark with some horrors even Geoffrey couldn't guess at.

  
'So do you love the theatre again, or do you just hate reality more?' Geoffrey asked in a hazy warm cocoon of drink and approaching sleep. His eyes were closing and he wasn't sure if he cared enough to stay awake for the answer.

  
Darren burst into a machine-gun salvo of barking laughter. 'Bless me Father for I have sinned.... God this takes me back.'

  
In a way his refusal to answer was answer enough and Geoffrey opened his eyes to look at him again. The theatre was full of refugees from a cruel, uncomprehending world. But there was no real solace here, theatre demanded recompense for her shelter, a price of blood and tears and slipping sanity. Geoffrey remembered that he hadn't been the only one in their study group at university to disappear off to A&E to get stitched back together. In the dim light of the desk-lamp Geoffrey could almost see the snaking lines of stitches currently holding his old nemesis together. He'd never believe empathy, not after all these years. He'd need a push, and Geoffrey knew he was the man to deliver it.


End file.
